


The Abominable Baby

by Hobbitrocious



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ABDL, Abandonment Issues, Adult baby, Age Play, Bondage, Comfort/Angst, Daddy John, Depression, Detox, Diapers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Infantilism, Mental Breakdown, Modern Era, Multi, Non-Sexual Age Play, Overdosing, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Praise Kink, Regression, Scars, Self-Harm, Sherlock Whump, Sickfic, Wetting, toilet accidents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-08-29 02:45:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8472502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitrocious/pseuds/Hobbitrocious
Summary: All right, not *too* abominable. . . but Sherlock is certainly not making things easy for Daddy and Mary, having nearly overdosed on the day he was meant to be deported and all. Now the expecting couple have an insecure, sickly Little detective to nurse through detox.Trigger Warnings for 'bad trip' type stuff, guilt/self-loathing issues, and some generally angsty Little headspace.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I tend to find it tough to whump up a character on my own to get them where I want, so the end of the TAB spesh was a wonderfully whumpy and convenient starting point.
> 
> The last few 'hot off the press' fics I've uploaded seemed to be better received than the ones I fine-tune prior to posting, so this one is left more or less in its first-draft format as well. I'm posting this story slightly earlier than I normally would, so I have another couple chapters almost in uploadable shape already but no ending in mind yet.

 

Sherlock was even more strung out than they'd thought. It was frankly a miracle he'd managed to maintain his façade of normalcy for as long as he did.

John and Mary could both see it now that they were getting into the car; now that Sherlock was straining just to stand and walk, shaking from the effort even after he collapsed into the back seat.

Mary hesitated when John immediately went for the front seat.

"You don't want to sit with him?" she whispered.

"Ah..." John gave her a tight smile. "No, you should be in the back, right? Safer." He nodded at her swollen baby bump.

"Right..." Mary sighed and they both got in. She wasn't about to start an argument over something as silly as who sat where. Things were tense enough between the three of them already.

The anonymous driver pulled away from the runway smoothly, headed for home.

 

In the first few minutes of the silence of the car ride, something terrible clicked in John's head. 

_ "Mycroft estimates six months." _

_ An inexplicably sorrowful smile. _

_ "He's never wrong." _

Why was six months such a big deal after his two-year hiatus? For Sherlock, anyway? The rest of them had reason to be sad and disappointed, but why on Earth...

... And the _timing_. Sherlock's symptoms of a near-overdose could have been worse, but even so, as they were manifesting now showed that the detective had timed things so that he wouldn't become ill until he was almost twenty minutes into his flight; well after he'd left anyone who gave a damn far behind on the ground.

"Fuck!" John said aloud before he realised it.

Mary quickly leaned forward, worried. "What is it? What's wrong?"

John ignored her and whipped around to look Sherlock in the eye. "Six months."

Sherlock looked up. Both men saw tears form in each other's eyes.

John couldn't really decide whether to feel devastated or enraged with the conclusion he'd come to; "You said goodbye... because you knew you were going on a suicide mission. Six months to live. Oh, god..." John's voice rose, "And you got doped up enough that maybe, just maybe, your body would give out before you ever landed! And... you..."

He couldn't bring himself to say it. _Sherlock wanted his final lasting memory to be of him and John_.

Mary's voice on the plane played through his head. _"Reading John's blog? The day you two met."_

"Oh my god, John." Aghast, Mary looked between the two of them. She hadn't quite been within earshot on the tarmac, or she might have figured it out herself before Sherlock stepped foot on the plane.

Sherlock began to look queasy and lowered his head, looking anywhere but at Mary or John.

Barely holding himself together, John accused under his breath, "You were going to leave me for real this time." 

He couldn't help but say it after all he'd gone through on Sherlock's account.

 

 

The three of them stewed in silence.

It wasn't long before Sherlock began to fidget quietly, the others not bothering to call him out on it. Guilt, anxiety, and a drug-induced decrease in inhibition would do that to a person.

So it wasn't until it was too late that John realised all the signs that Sherlock manifested over the next fifteen minutes - which felt like an eternity for them all - the rubbing his hands and knees together, the constant shifting, the effort not to let them see he was crying, then the outright whimpering and nervous, claustrophobic, half-hearted batting at the window, and, finally, the huddled rocking back and forth, all meant that Sherlock was taking a deep plummet into Little headspace at a very, very bad time.

John's black cloud of rage and mourning turned to adrenaline-sparked Doctor Mode when it hit him that Sherlock was having a bad trip of some sort, and then just what sort of trip it truly was.

 

 

"Stop the car," John ordered.

The driver pulled over and cut the engine.

"John?" Mary, who had been busying herself with her phone to distract herself from Sherlock's pathetic noises, peered over John's shoulder quizzically as he unbuckled his seat belt.

He got out and opened her door. "We're switching seats," he said.

Mary shot him a pointed Look, an unspoken _I told you so_ , as she got out and switched with him. John ignored the look just as pointedly, or tried to.

They settled in. As the car got moving again, John undid Sherlock's safety belt and urged him to scoot closer.

"There we are," John cooed as Sherlock buried his face dramatically in John's shoulder. "Come to Daddy."

Mary's eyebrows shot upward. She echoed incredulously, " _Daddy?_ "

It was obvious what Sherlock needed, John thought. Trying to hide it from Mary would only complicate things now.

"Um, yeah. He and I used to have this... this roleplay thing, I guess you could call it. I haven't done it with him since he was away..." John trailed off, stroking Sherlock's hair, his mind wandering back to the horrible day of the Fall.

"Go on," Mary prompted.

John cleared his throat nervously. "It's just, when he's really overstressed, sometimes he'll go into a different headspace, you know? It helps him cope."

"... All right..."

"So, well, he pretends to be a baby, and I'm..." John flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror. The driver in front gazed steadily at the road, giving no indication of interest in their conversation. "I'm his daddy."

"So, you mean he's regressed _and_ high?!" Mary exclaimed.

"Look, it's not his fault when he goes Little. It's like the Mind Palace, he just... it happens."

"I'm not saying it's his fault," Mary asserted quickly. "And you don't have to sound so guilty about it," she teased. "Sounds kind of healthy for him, actually. Better than him doing what he did today. I thought all his fuss just now was because he thought he was seeing the car melting or some crazy thing like that. Hallucinating." 

Offhand, she added as she turned her attention back to her phone, "Silly of me, as a nurse I should know better. That's not the kind of stuff he took... Granted, who knows what the combinations'll do to him."

No one in the car bothered to point out that Mary's knowledge of intoxicants probably didn't come solely from her nursing degree, nor from taking such things herself.

John looked back down at Sherlock, realising the detective was all but smothering himself in John's coat.

"Hey, what's wrong?" John tried to coax Sherlock to look up, but the 'baby' wasn't having it.

Sherlock whined and pressed his head down more insistently than before, like he was using John's clothing as a protective filter between his nose and the air.

John sniffed, but there wasn't any horrendous odour in the car or anything. Just the familiar, sultry scent of...

_Claire de la Lune._ Oh.

"It's your perfume," John said.

"What, really? After all this time, and he didn't have a problem with it..." Mary baulked. "Well, what am I supposed to do?"

John suggested as gently as possible, "Maybe don't wear it around him for a while."

She settled into her seat and sighed, "Right."

Their driver, who said nothing the entire trip, tapped a button and the rear windows opened just a crack. John was at least thankful that Mycroft's creepy employees were well trained, if not thoughtful.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

When they got Sherlock home to Baker Street, the first thing they did was launch into the much-needed discussion that hadn't felt right to have in front of the driver. They set a shaky Sherlock down on the sofa, just to watch him dazedly slide himself down to the floor a minute later.

"So," Mary said, "I expect you'll want to handle him yourself; no hospitals."

John nodded. "Best for everyone involved, that way. Besides, last time he climbed out the bloody window. At least here, he's more likely to hide in the downstairs linen cupboard." He tried to smile through the grim set to his lips.

 

All of a sudden, Mary paled. She pointed past John, towards Sherlock, and gasped, "John, what's he doing?"

"Hm?" John turned around. "God, Sherlock, what--"

Sherlock was sat on the floor, slouched beside the coffee table and mouthing at it. He gnawed on the edge of the wood single-mindedly until John rushed over and pulled him away from the table.

He nearly went for John's hand instead, but John was too quick for him.

"Ah-ah-ah! No, Sherlock," John tutted, whisking his arm out of reach. "No biting."

Sherlock made a frustrated noise and looked around the room. He homed in on the arm of the sofa next, scooting over to it and crooking his neck at an awkward angle to sink his teeth into the leather.

John had to intervene again. "Sherlock, _no!_ "

Crying and fussing, Sherlock tried to latch onto the couch in spite of John wrapped around him from behind, struggling to pin the younger man to the floor.

"Mary?" John called over his shoulder, "Cupboard under the kettle! Booster seat."

"On it," Mary reluctantly edged back to the kitchen, trying to keep an eye on them in case John lost control of Sherlock.

In the cupboard she was bewildered to find what looked like a very oversized child's car seat. It barely fit into the cupboard in the first place and was difficult to get out.

"As soon as you can!" John grunted. " _Please!_ "

"It's really wedged in," she called back.

It took an especially mighty tug to loose the thing. The force of it popping free knocked Mary onto her arse on the lino. Biting her lip to stop herself from cursing out loud at the absolutely rotten day this was turning out to be, she hefted herself and the booster seat up and hurried over to the living room.

It took both of them to strap a writhing Sherlock into the baby seat. The main fastener was in the back, where Sherlock couldn't reach it to release himself, and the weighted base more or less kept the whole thing from tipping over while the skinny detective wriggled and threw a tantrum.

Sherlock continued to sob pitifully, drumming his feet on the floor to make sure the grown-ups knew he was still cranky and wanted out of the seat. John and Mary stared as Sherlock finally resorted to stuffing his fingers in his mouth. That, at least, helped him quiet down a bit.

"It's as if he's teething," Mary noted under her breath.

John frowned thoughtfully. "Well, he's obviously too old to teethe... Huh. Maybe he wants his nippie."

"His what?"

"Pacifier. His dummy. That's what he calls it." John went to search the kitchen drawers for said nippie.

He returned with a pacifier that was, like the baby seat, sized up to accommodate the fact that, no matter how infantile Sherlock's mindset currently was, physically he wasn't all that little.

John knelt beside the baby seat and tried to give Sherlock the pacifier.

"Here, Sherlock. Look what Daddy has!"

His face stained with tears, Sherlock's kicking stilled when he saw his nippie. He fidgeted and mewled around his fingers, which John then gently tugged out of his mouth. John offered Sherlock the nippie, pressing it to the boy's lips.

No sooner had John stood back, relieved that Sherlock was calm again, Sherlock spat the nippie out with a wail and began to whine, arching his back against the seat.

"Maybe he's hungry," Mary suggested, frowning.

John laughed wryly. "With Sherlock, that's usually the _last_ thing it is."

"Well, if he's just playing pretend, it could be anything. Or nothing," she pointed out.

"Hmm... No, it's not so much pretend," John corrected her with a thoughtful look at Sherlock, whose hand was back in his mouth.

It was clear from the way Sherlock's chest heaved that it was a struggle for him to keep quiet enough to listen to what Daddy and Mary were saying. On the upside, it appeared his fussing was beginning to wind down on account of him becoming worn out.

John shook his head, remembering, "I've seen him Little and kited before, once. That's the whole reason we had the restraint seat in the first place."

Only half joking, Mary asked, "That bad?"

Now that Sherlock had stopped flailing, John gingerly plopped down on the floor and rubbed Sherlock's knee sympathetically while he spoke,

"Well, it's like he gets... more absorbed in it, y'know? He used to get pretty deep into it just while he was clean. When he wasn't," John coughed to cover an unsteady waver in his voice. "When he _wasn't_ , it was way more than just pretend. I mean, it is more anyways, under, you know, normal circumstances. But, when he's like _this_ , it's more intense."

Mary took in what John was trying to say and folded her arms.

"You mean he's as good as, like, what? hypnotised right now?" she interpreted. "We can't snap him out of it."

John heaved a grim-sounding sigh. "Yeah, that's about it. Last time, he stayed this way until the drugs were out of his system. All through detox, and then most of the day after it was over. About four days straight."

Mary's jaw dropped.

"Four days? You mean this," she pointed at Sherlock and the baby seat, "isn't going to let up for four days?!"

John grimaced, sighed, and shrugged. "Give or take, I don't know. He took a lot this time."

Peeling off her coat and hanging it on one of the pegs on the back of the door to the landing, Mary said, "Yeah, I saw his list. Looks like we'll be getting in that parenting practise after all, then. I'm going to go make sure Mrs. Hudson doesn't think we're murdering him up here. I'll be back in a bit."

"You don't have to stay," John offered. "You should go home, rest up. Today's been hell."

Mary quirked an eyebrow at him, saying, "If he's going to be like _that_ for four days, yeah, I have to stay. I don't know how you managed him alone the last time."

"Da-YEEEE!" Sherlock suddenly screamed, arcing his back once more. The seat's straps, thankfully, held.

John was quick to shush him, stroking his hair back in an attempt to soothe him.

Mary's hands flew to her ears. "God. I'm going downstairs now. Maybe he's in pain?"

"Could be," John agreed, peering at Sherlock's eyes and mentally taking note of the pupil dilation. "With everything he took, if he doesn't have the mother of all headaches right now, he will by tomorrow morning. And I can't give him any of the painkillers we've got here, after all that. Missus Hudson might hear more screaming later. His reactions when he's Little can be kind of involuntary."

"Funny; when he normally likes to be so stoic."

John started to smile at that, then groaned, "'Involuntary'. I nearly forgot."

"Hm? Forgot what?"

"... He's going to need a nappy."

Mary stopped in her tracks, hand on the doorknob. She said, " _Oh_."

"It's okay," John waved at her, "I've got it. Used to do this all the time."

"But not when he's this stroppy?" she pointed out.

John hesitated, then waved her downstairs again. "Yeah, well, I'll shout if I need you, how's that."

Mary looked unconvinced. She yielded just the same, holding up her phone to let John know she'd have it with her, and quipped, "I'll have the text alert and all that on extra loud, just in case. Our next kid is going to seem so easy after this."

With that she disappeared, making sure to close the door firmly behind her to keep the noise from travelling too much.

John rubbed Sherlock's knee again.

"Okay, Baby," John said softly, "are you ready to put your nappy on? Going to behave while Daddy washes your face and then lets you out of the booster chair?"

He smoothed his fingers over Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock's face was blotchy and wet.

When John undid the buckle behind the seat, Sherlock didn't bolt or struggle. He sat quietly, watching his Daddy with wide, puffy, wet eyes.

John sighed in relief as he loosened the straps in front also without incident.

"Good boy."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos so far!!! <3   
> (Though more are always nice!) ;3


	3. Chapter 3

When Mary came back upstairs, the diaper change was over and done with.

Sherlock was back in the booster seat, which had been adjusted so that it cradled him in a reclined position, and he was wearing an extremely childlike ensemble of baby blue tee shirt with a yellow terrycloth bib over it, exposed diaper, and pastel pink anklet socks. John sat beside the booster holding a baby bottle to Sherlock's lips, feeding him cool water.

Sherlock was much calmer now and barely batted an eye as Mary entered. She plunked herself down on the couch, the booster seat near her feet. She smelled more of soap and much less of _Claire de la Lune_ now.

Observing Sherlock sidelong, she asked John, "What are we dealing with for the next few days, then?"

"Well," John said, pausing to use the corner of Sherlock's bib to wipe up a stray dribble, "a couple days of detox misery for sure, but overall I think he might give us an easier go of it than last time. He's in his sweet space, I like to call it. When he's little enough, he's very eager to please. Mostly nonverbal. He took a lot of downers this time, so he might nap a lot. Last time it was more stimulants; he was a right brat out of hell."

"Let's hope that headache is gone when the morning comes," Mary quipped and took a sip of the tea Mrs. Hudson had given her.

That got a small laugh out of John.

Turning serious again, Mary pointed out, "I think you're right about him sleeping a lot. He probably will. He was trying to sedate himself to never wake up again, wasn't he."

John huffed through his nose, anger flaring. "Yeah, could we not bring that up again?"

"He couldn't see the point in living another six months if he was never going to see you again," she pressed. She got the feeling John wasn't letting himself look at that part of it anymore; had suspended putting Sherlock's behaviour into perspective.

"Alright," John said, still terse, "I see your point. But I don't think we should talk about this in front of him. He internalises a lot when he's little, and I'm the one who has to deal with his mood swings from it."

"When he's little?" Mary scoffed. "I'd say he internalises more often than that. A lot more often. He internalises _constantly_ , and the both of you act as if it doesn't happen."

"Right, just... let's focus on getting him through the detox first. We can discuss the immensity of his stupidity later."

They heard a few hitching breaths, and John felt the bottle pop out of Sherlock's mouth. When they looked down at him, Sherlock's face was scrunched up in agony and he was crying silently.

"Ohhhh, no no no no," John cooed, wiping up the tears with the bib, "Daddy shouldn't have said that. Sherlock, you're not stupid. You're the smartest baby on the planet. But it hurts Daddy when you hurt yourself, understand?"

"Mm?" Sherlock grunted, his lip wobbling, wide eyes searching John's.

The detective looked so vulnerable.

John explained to him gently, "All those drugs you took aren't good for you, and you knew that. Daddy's going to take care of you, but those drugs are still going to make you feel sick for a couple of days. That wasn't a good decision you made."

Sherlock whimpered, his Little self expressing his guilt and self-loathing with more tears.

"Shhh, it's okay now. You just need to get better, alright? Daddy still loves you." John blushed even as he said it. He only ever said 'I love you' to Sherlock when the younger was regressed. The words didn't feel as weighty when he was saying them to his baby. But saying them with Mary in the room was quite another thing.

Sherlock, however small, still picked up on the unsaid. Daddy hadn't said he wasn't mad at Sherlock. Baby Sherlock continued to cry.

John tried to distract him.

"Here, can you finish your bottle for me? When you're finished we can have a cuddle," he bribed, feeling more and more self-conscious in front of Mary.

Love and cuddles and baby talk for Sherlock, and eventually kisses if he wanted to keep the detective calm, felt like more than John ever wanted to reveal to her. But there was nothing for it now. He'd need her support in caring for Sherlock. She was right about that.

Sniffling, Sherlock swallowed the drainage from his runny nose to clear his throat and opened his mouth obediently. John poked the nipple in, and Sherlock slowly worked down the last half of the water while the other two looked on.

They were all quiet until, frowning in deep concern, Mary pointed to Sherlock's nearer wrist, indicating both wrists with her eyes, and asked John under her breath as if it would prevent Sherlock from understanding,

"What happened there?"

Faded but definite scarring, smooth and white, in broken lines around both wrists, was what had caught her attention.

"Not completely sure," John answered back in a similarly soft tone, "but I found more like that on his back when I was changing him. Worse on his back, deeper cuts I think."

He flicked his gaze to Sherlock's face to check whether the discussion was affecting him. Sherlock appeared to be tuning it out, or at least stifling any reaction; focussed on finishing his water like a good boy.

A second later, an unpleasant understanding showed in Mary's eyes.

"From his time away," she said.

John nodded, reluctantly coming to the same conclusion. Until Mary confirmed it, John's guilt over leaving Sherlock alone for most of the time since his return nagged at him, making him question if the injuries were more recent, something John could have prevented by being more vigilant.

"He hid it well," John replied to the unspoken question, _how did we miss this in all the time he's been back?_

Knowing Mary would take it better now, in this moment of shared grief over the battered little boy, John made himself give in to his paternal instinct and leaned down to kiss Sherlock on the forehead. He and Mary would both have to get used to John openly showing this level of affection. John needed it, and he was damn sure Sherlock needed it.

Sherlock's breath hitched just briefly, but he managed to not start crying again. Instead, he bashfully averted his eyes, looking at John's hand feeding him the bottle as he drained his last few sips.

John set the empty bottle on the coffee table and petted Sherlock's hair, proudly whispering, "Good boy... There's my sweet little boy."

As soon as John withdrew his touch, Sherlock felt some of the warmth leave his own body. John broke contact far too soon for his liking.

With the already messed up state Sherlock's mind was in, the conversation he'd just absorbed despite not really listening slowly re-pieced itself just below some conscious threshold and its meaning sank in in a very emotional way, instead of the literal, analytical, more tangible way it should have.

Daddy and Mary knew Sherlock's body was marred, and their knowing made the entire room feel yucky, in a vaguely chilly and sticky sort of way that made Sherlock wonder if they might be mad or disappointed with him. He was aware of their concern over him, but was it good? Was it bad? Did they think his back had something to do with the bad drugs he took today? He felt as though he'd done something wrong, something he wasn't sure of but that he was being judged for.

" _Mmmmmmmm!_ " Sherlock keened, pawing at Daddy's sleeve.

Daddy's touch was reassuring. That was what he needed.

Emotions were difficult enough for Sherlock under normal circumstances. Right now was much, much worse. His already taxed body began to tremble again.

"It's okay, I'm here."

John tried to placate him, but Sherlock became even more anxious. Baby kicked at the floor again and wriggled against the seat straps, whining.

John mistook it for begging to be let out and caved, sighing, "Okay, okay. Give me a minute to undo the back."

Sherlock's agitation increased with each passing second. As soon as the click of the rear buckle opening could be heard and the straps went slack, Mary helpfully reached over to unhook the simpler closures in the front and gently pushed the straps aside.

Sherlock didn't sit up in time. A gross sensation he'd first felt in the car swelled and overpowered him.

Almost before John had come back around to the side of the booster, there was a wretched, wet retching sound, and Sherlock's bib was half-covered in watery vomit.

Recoiling from the acrid wetness in his mouth, over his chin, and down his front, Sherlock sobbed a bit more, unable to help himself.

Caught completely off-guard, John and Mary shared a dumbfounded look over the mess.

"Whew. All right..." John got ahold of himself and sprang into action, removing Sherlock's bib before the vomit could seep into the rest of the baby clothes and using a dry edge to clean Sherlock's chin.

Mary took the soiled bib from him and went to rinse it in the kitchen sink, where she left it to deal with later; as long as it was rinsed enough it didn't smell so strongly that it made her nauseous too. She returned with both dry and soapy, wet kitchen papers which John accepted gratefully and used to finish cleaning Sherlock.

"A glass of water, please," John directed her, "and maybe another glass he can spit into."

Mary fetched those too and helped Sherlock rinse out his mouth.

John was back to petting Sherlock's hair when the cleanup was over. His little boy looked so exhausted. Sherlock wasn't even trying to escape the booster anymore.

Sherlock's stomach gurgled as bile made its way back down.

John rubbed Sherlock's belly to soothe him. The action, seeing his hand there, the attention drawn to Sherlock's middle, made him realise something.

"Were you having tummy trouble earlier, baby? Is that why you were biting things?"

A weak, affirmative "Mm-hm," made its way from Sherlock's throat.

John _tsked_ at his oversight and apologised, "I had no idea you were feeling nauseous, baby. I'm sorry. Can you try to let me know as soon as you're feeling well enough to take another bottle?"

Preventing dehydration was definitely still a priority. Sherlock's body would need plenty of fluids to flush the drugs from his system, and he'd just spat up nearly half of the water he drank.

With a fretful expression, Sherlock reluctantly nodded. He felt so, so icky, he wasn't sure he would be ready for another bottle at any point today.

Mary chimed in, "Sherlock, your back isn't hurting you, is it?"

She hated to bring it up again so soon, but it worried her.

Sherlock stared up at her, looking utterly bewildered. Mary was technically a Stranger to him in Little-space. He wasn't sure it was even okay to talk to her. He looked over to Daddy for guidance.

John tried, "I saw some old boo-boos on your back. Do they still hurt at all? You don't need to stay in the booster if it's hurting you."

Sensing this was especially important, Sherlock struggled to force his headspace forward enough to be able to use words for Daddy.

Shaking his head in the exaggerated manner of any two-year-old, Sherlock looked Daddy in the eye and carefully enunciated, "No. No hurt."

The relief on John's face was worth the effort.

"Alright. Good," Daddy breathed. He shared a shaky smile with Mary.

She tried to make her answering smile as reassuring as possible. She knew John would never have forgiven himself if he'd inadvertently trapped Sherlock in a painful position. The regressed detective had been strapped into the booster for a good fifteen minutes, at least.

In a deliberately cheerful voice, John, getting up onto his knees in front of Sherlock, said, "Okay, you know what I want now? A cuddle with my baby! Come here, love. That's it."

He eased Sherlock up onto the sofa with him, beside Mary. He sat them so that Sherlock could snuggle into his side, half across his lap and half supported by the corner of the backrest and armrest.

"Good boy," Daddy whispered into Sherlock's ear, knowing he needed to hear those words right now.

They sat quietly for some time, Sherlock calming down and gradually relaxing into John's embrace, John rubbing Sherlock's back and lost in thought, and Mary patiently, curiously observing the softness of their dynamic now that the bout of drama was past.

Eventually, in the peaceful lull, a faint, steady noise reached their ears. It went on for nearly half a minute. Mary at first thought she was only imagining it, or that the sound was outside the room, but John obviously heard it too and was watching Sherlock intently as though it was coming from the baby.

When it was over, John cleared his throat and glanced at Mary with just a hint of nerves before asking Sherlock in a fond tone, "Did baby go wee-wee just now?"

The purpose of the question was twofold; to alert Mary that a diaper change was imminent, whether she wanted to stick around to watch or not, and to let Sherlock know that Daddy cared about him and was paying attention to his bodily functions.

Also to highlight the slightly absurd fact that Sherlock had technically peed in John's lap.

Blushing over the attention drawn to his 'incontinence', Sherlock smiled shyly and hid his face in John's neck.

When John looked back to Mary, her eyebrows were raised curiously.

Otherwise, her intrigued expression said she was more or less comfortable with the way things were proceeding. It probably helped a great deal that it wasn't her lap being peed in.

John tipped up Sherlock's chin for a moment to ask him, "Hey, while you're still a bit more present: do you have a headache?"

Sherlock thought about it, biting his lip to help him think while he digested the grown-up words, then shook his head 'no'.

"How about anywhere else?"

Unsure how to respond, Sherlock shrugged. He didn't have any specific pains, other than achey eyes from crying and some soreness in his throat from throwing up. The rest was more a vague, heavy ache that pervaded his entire body. Maybe still a bit of nausea too, but nowhere near as bad as before.

John gave Sherlock a suspicious look, not quite stifling a frustrated huff. He hoped for a more helpful answer. Either Sherlock wasn't exactly in pain, or he wanted John to play Twenty Questions because he wasn't up to speaking further.

"Just tired?" John guessed. He figured if it was real pain, Sherlock would have nodded 'yes' to prompt John to guess exactly where he hurt.

After a slow blink, Sherlock seemed to realise that he was indeed tired, and he nodded.

"Okay. Think you can handle another bottle before your nap?"

Because John was pretty sure Sherlock wouldn't fight him on having a kip today.

Sherlock looked more than a bit anxious at the question.

"Okay," John haggled, "how about just half a bottle?"

He could virtually see the gears turning inside Sherlock's head before the little boy hid his face once more, in what John took to be grudging agreement. John pulled him back so that he could kiss Sherlock's cheek and get them both standing.

Mary continued to rest on the couch, swinging her feet up into the warm spot her husband's bottom left behind, and watched the two men head down the hall to Sherlock's room.

It was slow going, as Sherlock immediately wobbled and lowered himself to the floor before John could react, then insisted on crawling the entire way. John humoured him, patiently leading the way and stopping every few feet to look back and see how the baby was keeping up.

As they disappeared into Sherlock's room, Mary smiled at hearing John praise Sherlock for making it all the way on his own.

Over the course of the next few minutes, she was able to catch the lilting cadence of John talking sweetly to Sherlock interspersed with the sounds of a nappy change. After that, John came out to retrieve the baby bottle.

Mary smirked at him, patting her belly, and chirped, "You make such a good Daddy."

He bent down and kissed her. "And you're a very considerate Mummy. Thanks for washing off the perfume, I think that helped him a lot."

Mary nodded. The implication of sensory triggers and flashbacks to being shot and resuscitated hung in the air like a dreadful, shadowy, vengeful ghost, but she was grateful they were past having shouting matches over it.

"Do you think he'll let me get close enough to practise my Mummying skills on him?" she asked conversationally.

She didn't expect to get too involved either way, whether she was welcome to or not; she was close enough to her real due date as things were and wore out quickly, so although she was sticking around in case of emergency, most of the work was still up to John.

The scepticism was plain in John's tight smile.

"Maybe. I guess we can ask him after he's recovered. For now, he doesn't have much choice."

"True," Mary agreed. "Here, could you hand me that pillow?"

John found the Union Jack pillow and handed it to her so that she could cushion her head and settle back.

"Thank you, luv. If you need me, I'll be right here." She blew him a kiss, and picked an old periodical from atop a stack inside the box tucked under the coffee table.

He went to the kitchen to fix the bottle.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock slept through the night with John beside him. Mary was upstairs in the attic bed after a solo trip to the Watson's flat for their overnight things. Whenever the doctor woke, he would check that Sherlock was still breathing. He was a light breather in sleep under normal circumstances, something John had to panickily remind himself of a few times that night.

* * *

  
The baby woke late in the morning, lethargic, with glazed eyes. Yesterday's elation over being sent back home with Daddy now gave way to the horrendous low of withdrawal. Baby was going to be _verrry_ cranky today, and there was nothing for it.  
  
First thing to set him off was going to rub at his eyes, trying to wrest his half-numb hands from the tangled blanket, and discovering he was not caught up in the covers but rather wearing pink cotton mitts that were each cinched shut with a miniature padlock.  
  
He made to thrust his bound hands at Daddy to be let free, but Daddy wasn't in the bed with him anymore.  
  
Sherlock looked about the room. Daddy wasn't anywhere.  
  
  
John heard the first long, low wail all the way from his armchair in front of the hearth.  
  
"He's up," he sighed to Mary and hefted himself out of his cosy seat to go deal with the toddling terror.  
  
Or perhaps not toddling. There was no way of predicting exactly how regressed Sherlock would be today until John actually saw him, but by the sound of the untempered crying the detective was feeling quite small.  
  
Sherlock managed to hold back his sobs for the space of two breaths once John stepped through the door. But, as John didn't immediately move to approach further, taking a moment to find his bearings and assess how today would go, little Sherlock resumed tearfully wailing in grief.  
  
That spurred John to his bedside, whispering in an effort to get Sherlock to match his volume, "Okay, okay. Good morning, baby. Let Daddy check your nappy, and then we'll get your breakfast, yeah?"  
  
He stroked Sherlock's hair back until the little one's screams died down to soft, resentful sounding whimpers, then slid a hand between Sherlock's legs to feel up the nappy.  
  
Sherlock's nappy was definitely wet. John expected as much, seeing as Sherlock hadn't visited the toilet since the previous afternoon. The changing supplies were still out on the nightstand from before, so things went considerably quicker.  
  
Or, rather, they would have gone quicker if Sherlock hadn't decided to be the fussiest wee brat he possibly could.  
  
"No!" John warned, catching his baby boy's hip as the little rascal tried to roll out of the soggy, opened nappy, "You're still wet, don't mess up the sheets."  
  
" _Unnnnnnnngh!_ " Sherlock smacked the mattress repeatedly in protest, flailing both his arms and legs. John had to step back for a moment to avoid being hit.  
  
Pressing Sherlock's pelvis to the bed with one hand and fishing for a fresh nappy from the package with the other, John groused, "I know, hang on. Just give me a minute, and you can roll anywhere you want."  
  
Thankfully, Sherlock stilled at that. Despite the mitts, which certainly wouldn't taste good, he stuck his fingers in his mouth.  
  
Then, with sweet, muffled coo, Sherlock relaxed and released a spray of urine all over John's right sleeve.  
  
"Damnit, Sherlock!" John roared and fumbled with the old diaper to flip it back up over Sherlock's treacherous wee-wee, getting more of his jumper in the line of fire in the process.  
  
Mary piped up from the doorway, "That's why you're supposed to put a flannel over them if the nappy's off."  
  
Sherlock and John both startled.  
  
"If you'd been watching, you could have mentioned that sooner," John pointed out.  
  
"Sorry, I thought you'd done this before," she poked.  
  
Not wanting to say, _he's usually not this much trouble_ , and risk setting Sherlock off again, John carefully replied, "First time this has happened."  
  
"Here; I can take your jumper to--" Mary began to approach to help John strip the pee-stained oatmeal jumper off, but stopped short when Sherlock visibly flinched.  
  
Mary and John studied him. Sherlock looked like cornered prey; stock still, his eyes were wide as if in terror and glued to Mary, his rapid breathing suggesting his heart was nearly beating out of his chest. The hand not in his mouth was clenched into a defensive fist, the entire arm drawn feebly to his chest, along with the immediate raising of his knees, hinting at a desire to curl into a foetal ball.  
  
"Okay," Mary said softly. She held up her hands placatingly and started to step closer, ensuring she made no sudden moves.  
  
All the same, Sherlock flinched violently again. This time, although Mary was quick to stop dead in her tracks at the first sign of disturbance, the damage was done. Along with the flinch, John felt a vibration inside the nappy under his hand accompanied by a wet fart noise.  
  
John's eyes went wide, slightly horrified.  
  
Had Sherlock really...? He'd never lacked the presence of mind before so as to do _that_ in his nappy. He always knew enough to scoot himself over to the bathroom door so John would have a cue when the baby needed to be helped onto the toilet.  
  
John glanced at Mary. She'd raised her eyebrows at the sound too, covering her shocked gawping with her palm.  
  
John cleared his throat and excused, "Maybe it was just gas."  
  
Hesitantly, he pulled the diaper back to check. And coughed at the smell which greeted him.  
  
Nope. Definitely not mere gas. Wincing, he quickly flipped the nappy back into place.  
  
"Sorry," Mary murmured in a genuinely apologetic voice, "I'll wait out there. Bring me everything that needs washing when you're done."  
  
"Right, thank you," John told her in a rush of breath, and she retreated to the living room.  
  
Sherlock shuddered and anxiously watched the spot where Mary had stood for some time after she'd gone. He flinched again when a plastic bin liner flew in from the hall.  
  
"Thanks," John called as he bent and picked it up. He hooked it onto the drawer knob of the nightstand so he could toss the dirty wipes and thoroughly soiled nappy directly in.  
  
"You, little mister," John muttered at Sherlock as he worked, "are getting a bath straight away."  
  
It had been long enough since the last time John had been Daddy that he'd temporarily forgotten what a mistake it was to utter the B-word aloud. Sherlock's brow furrowed worriedly.  
  
John made a quick trip down the hall to throw the securely tied bag into the bin and to hand his peed-on shirts over to his sullen wife. The stains had seeped all the way down to his vest.  
  
"Thanks, sorry about that." John explained as Mary gingerly took the clothing from him, "I'm going to give the crack baby a bath now. It's his own fault he won't get breakfast for another twenty minutes."  
  
Shirtless, John trudged back to the bedroom.  
  
The box of wipes and the tin of nappy cream were still on the bed.  The baby wasn't.  
  
John turned, his eyes flying to the window. Still shut and latched on the inside, good.  
  
Sherlock wasn't under the bed. John checked from all three sides. That left the wardrobe.  
  
Sherlock squinted guiltily up at Daddy when the doors were opened. He sat in the bottom of the wardrobe, his bare butt crushing some expensive-looking shoes.  
  
"Come on. Up." Impatient to get Sherlock into the tub lest he wet - or mess - himself in another inconvenient place, John didn't bother with any coaxing baby-talk before dragging Sherlock halfway out and grabbing the detective up into a full front carry, forcing Sherlock's legs around his Daddy's waist and his arms around Daddy's neck.  
  
Daddy held tight, one hand under Sherlock's bum and the other arm wrapped around the baby's back. Taking slow steps since it was difficult to see around his burden, Daddy carried Sherlock to the bathroom.  
  
John bare-chested and Sherlock bare-bottomed, they were an odd sight creeping down the hall.  
  
He set the baby down on the toilet and warned, "If you've got to do any more, do it now."  
  
John tugged the blue tee shirt over Sherlock's head and tossed it over the towel bar, then produced the tiny silver key to Sherlock's baby mitts from his jeans pocket and released Sherlock's hands.  
  
"Done on there, or have you still got some left?" John asked after Sherlock had been sitting naked on the pot for a few more minutes.  
  
Sherlock sucked on his thumb and frowned at the confusing words.  
  
About to move Sherlock to the tub, John realised he had a small dilemma. He needed a shower too, and he could either take it after Sherlock was clean, leaving him alone or with Mary, or they could have their bath together.  
  
Sherlock was acting terrified of Mary; having her babysit even for ten minutes wouldn't go down well. The thought of leaving Sherlock unsupervised for that long didn't sit well with John, either, but most unsettling was the prospect of facing Mary after having obviously shared the tub with Sherlock. They hadn't discussed the possibility, and now wasn't the time.  
  
Had Sherlock been Big right then, he might have said, _Oh, stop worrying about it, she already knows_. Sherlock, and even Major Sholto, occupied more of John's heart than Mary did. Yet John tried to maintain the illusion it was otherwise.  
  
Sherlock wasn't Big, though, so instead he cowered from John's pensive frown. He also made one last involuntary tinkle into the toilet bowl, startling himself. John's hand shot out to steady him when he jumped.  
  
"Good boy," John remarked when it was overwith.  
  
Sherlock relaxed, able to understand the sound of Daddy's praise if not the actual words.  
  
In light of Sherlock's mental state, John opted to give him an infant bath instead of the usual toddler-style one. He laid Sherlock flat in the tub, head rested on a thin foam bath pillow shaped like a turtle. Sherlock's long legs had to be bent up to fit, his heels up on the rim of the tub on either side of the taps. John gave him only one toy, and made sure it was a soft, teething-friendly one.  
  
He filled the tub with a scant couple inches of water, using a duck puppet flannel to sponge the water over Sherlock after he'd completely soaped him up with the baby shampoo.  
  
Halfway through, Sherlock flinched at the sound of Mary shutting a cupboard out in the kitchen.  
  
"You're so jumpy today," John noted with worry. He rubbed the duckie flannel softly over Sherlock's chest and felt the baby's heart racing.  
  
Much to John's relief Sherlock's pulse slowed to normal after a minute, but he was concerned that the baby was so overly excitable.  
  
The rubbery squirty toy squeaked shrilly as Sherlock chewed on it all through his hair being rinsed. He may not have been mentally 'all there' for the moment, but, as John predicted, he was definitely in his Little 'sweet space'.  
  
After sitting the baby up to wash his back, legs, and feet, John drained the tub and wrapped Sherlock in two large towels. Somehow he found the strength to carry Sherlock for the trip back to the bedroom, but he doubted he would manage it a third time in one day.  
  
Heeding Mary's advice, he left a towel wrapped over Sherlock's crotch up to the very second the clean nappy went on.  
  
He dressed Sherlock in a onesie to keep the diaper securely in place, and fleecy, footed blanket sleeper so the freshly washed Little wouldn't catch a chill.  
  
Then, kissing Sherlock's forehead, he said, "My turn to wash up. Be good for ten minutes, alright, baby?"  
  
He left, shut Sherlock's door, and popped down the hall to say to Mary, "I'm hopping in the shower. Would you keep an ear out for him?"  
  
"Yeah, sure. Do your trousers need to go in the wash? I can still throw them in."  
  
John peered down at himself. "I think they evaded fire."  
  
Mary smirked.  
  
"Good thing the next one's a girl," she said with a wink.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my wonderful readers, I'm sorry the waits between chapters on all my fics have been so long, but my life has been an absolute hell for the past year and a half, and things just got worse this month. Expect the same length of delays for the indefinite future.

When John turned the shower off, he could have sworn he heard Sherlock moaning from the bedroom. Dry and dressed in under two minutes, John hurried to Sherlock's room to check on him.  
  
When he got there, Sherlock was indeed moaning, begging, "No... no..." from his hidey-hole inside the wardrobe, in front of which Mary crouched, effectively barricading Sherlock inside.  
  
Mary turned when she heard John's footstep near the bed.  
  
"Oh, John!" she sounded as if she'd been caught off guard. "He's been crying for you."  
  
For some reason, behind his fierce protectiveness, suspicion also rose in John's chest like a suffocating breath of noxious gas. He was quick to demand, "Yeah? Was that before or after you came in here?"  
  
"... I..." Whatever Mary's first instinct was to answer with, she wavered.  
  
"I'll deal with him," John dismissed her with a nod toward the door.  
  
She stood. It was obvious it would be hazardous to anyone's health to get between Daddy and his Baby right now.  
  
"He went to the bathroom door, so I--" she tried to explain now that she'd regained her composure.  
  
"NOOOOOO!" Sherlock shrieked at them both, drumming his feet on the bottom of the wardrobe.  
  
John and Mary stared at him cautiously while he stared back and cried. Whether Sherlock's outburst was in direct response to Mary, or a mindless expression of frustration, was anyone's guess.  
  
"Did you try to go to the bathroom, Sherlock?" John asked him.  
  
It was fruitless. Sherlock stuck his thumb in his mouth and squirmed, turning toward the wall, moaning.  
  
After one more awkward glance at each of the men, Mary made a swift exit to the living room.  
  
John watched her go, relieved that she shut the door behind her.  
  
Then Sherlock was reaching up desperately to him, all runny nose and tear-stained everything, pleading, "Da-da!" as if his life depended on John.  
  
Which, really, it rather did.  
  
"Alright, Daddy's here," John eased the lanky boy out of the dark wardrobe and gathered him up in his lap on the floor.  
  
Sherlock was shuddering uncontrollably.  
  
John rocked him and rubbed his back, and briefly snuck his hand up to Sherlock's forehead to check his temperature. In the space of time it took him to do that, Sherlock went entirely limp against him.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
The detective was unresponsive. Clammy, too, despite the fleece bodysuit.  
  
John carefully cradled the back of Sherlock's skull and tipped his head back. Sherlock's eyes were shut, his breathing shallow again like it had been all throughout the night.  
  
John shook him gently. "Sherlock, hey."  
  
"Mmm?" Sherlock grunted and barely cracked his eyes open, then appeared to slip straight back into unconsciousness.  
  
"Hey. Are you with me?" John tried again.  
  
In case part of the problem was hypotension, John eased Sherlock back and laid him on the rug. He lifted Sherlock's legs and rested each ankle over one of his own shoulders, to help blood flow get back to Sherlock's sluggish heart and torpid brain.  
  
"Come on, baby," John muttered, "don't scare Daddy like this."  
  
Until he'd said it aloud, John hadn't even consciously realised he was, in fact, afraid. Rationally, he knew Sherlock's health was as stable as anyone could hope for after yesterday's debacle, but if something else went wrong, something unforeseen...  
  
He couldn't lose his baby again. He couldn't lose his little Sherlock.  
  
_And there it was; that was why seeing Mary alone with Sherlock, and Sherlock so distressed, set him off. She nearly took him from John once, and neither Sherlock nor John really trusted her not to try and finish the job._  
  
John sat there, hyperventilating and clutching Sherlock's legs, as that sank in.  
  
Mary was a threat to the baby. Not the _baby_ baby, the one Mary was carrying, but to Sherlock. _John's_ baby.  
  
"God, why did I ever listen to you..." John whispered down at Sherlock. It was at the poor, injured baby's insistence, months ago, that John had reconsidered kicking his significant two-faced assassin to the kerb.  
  
After a couple minutes, Sherlock still hadn't woken but his breathing remained steady. John lowered Sherlock's legs and quickly unzipped the pyjamas, stripping him down to his nappy.  
  
He checked painstakingly along every part of Sherlock's body for any sign of a pinprick or suspicious discolouration; any sign that Mary had tried to drug him further in the minutes she had alone with him.  
  
Thankfully, John found no such mark. Still instinctively suspicious, but now feeling a bit sheepish for his paranoia, he silently vowed to keep a closer eye on both Mary and Sherlock, for the latter's sake.  
  
He manhandled Sherlock back into the warm baby clothing, then grabbed a pillow off the bed to tuck between Sherlock's head and the hard flooring.  
  
Re-dressing him managed to jostle Sherlock awake a couple of times, but he never kept his eyes open for more than a moment.  
  
John was beginning to rethink breakfast for Sherlock. At this point, he would be happy just to get a bit more water into him.  
  
That was when Mary called from the sitting room, "John? Your phone!"  
  
He found he was dreading trying to deal with her right now. He almost wanted to barricade himself in the bedroom with Sherlock and... well, never leaving the room ever again was a bit extreme.  
  
With a deep, long breath, he steeled himself. He'd go get his phone, come right back--  
  
No, he still needed something to eat, even if Sherlock didn't.  
  
And he needed to fill a bottle.  
  
And, come to think of it, it could help to have the booster seat back here in the bedroom too.  
  
John sighed. He was going to have to spend maybe twenty or thirty minutes of back-and-forth prep work, but he was determined to make the room a suitable nesting space for at least the next twenty-four hours. If he could prove to himself - and Mary- that he could manage Sherlock on his own for that long, maybe they'd both feel better about him sending Mary back to their flat tomorrow, and then John wouldn't have to worry about her triggering any more panic attacks in Little Sherlock for a while, and John could have a break from feeling like he was under siege by his wife.  
  
He procrastinated long enough to take Sherlock's pulse, to reassure himself, then stood and strode purposefully down the hall.


End file.
